


The Immortal Man

by Shepromisedmenothing



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Addiction, Charles-centric, Light Angst, M/M, Poor Charles, Self-Medication, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5410049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shepromisedmenothing/pseuds/Shepromisedmenothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles used to be immortal. Brilliant and beaming with the kind of charisma that could overshadow the stars. But just as every star burns out, it is safe to say that he is no longer that man. Small, small passage taking place during DOFP, just before Wolverine breaks in to talk some sense into him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Immortal Man

Charles' brain is already pounding in his skull, which is strange because it's not even morning yet. But then again, the amount of alcohol he’s consumed in just the past few hours alone is enough to warrant consequences, and Charles  _knows_ about consequences.

The only reason why he can even approximate the time of day is because, if he squints, he can see blurry orange and coral pinks just barely sneaking past his window blinds- one of his many barriers from the outside world- as the sunset glow grows fainter and steals away to the horizon.

These are moments during which he would have sighed in adoration, perhaps, in a different life. But instead he is sitting here all alone in a dark room, with a dead past and a barely salvaged present rekindled in woeful embers, and it's all really too much to think about. So he cuts the notion short, blaming it on the half-empty syringe to his left, and the battered flask to his right.

Because honestly, this isn't his fault. This story is all wrong, he thinks. He, _he_ was the one who had full awareness of his gift, of himself, and the world around him. He was the one who chose to see the promising twinkle in people, to realize the potential and prod it until it evolved into something transcendent. He gave and gave, until he gave just a little too much, gave to the wrong person, kept the faith one too many times.

That brings him to where he is now. Optimism all used up. Nullified. So utterly _mortal_. And, by God, it isn't his fault.

But Erik- the name that simmers in his brain like an infected wound- is gone, closely followed by Raven in fact, so really, it's not like there is anyone else left to take the blame, to weather the sacrifice. Who better a lamb than he?

His eyes grow heavy and body goes slack in his armchair, even though all he’s doing is letting the liquor burn on his tongue, but the act is taxing as it is trivial. He lets his vision brush over to where the abandoned chessboard lay, left in mid game too, shoved in the corner and mounted upon discarded textbooks, unceremoniously suspended in time. Charles knows that he really should just clear the board, knock down every pawn, bishop, knight and king that still stands tall. He wants to wipe away each footprint left behind from his younger self (stupid and naïve as he was) so badly, so that he does not have to remember. Many times he comes close to doing it too, but there’s always something stops him. If it isn't the voices slithering back into his head, it's the numbed feeling in his legs. And if it isn't his legs, it's-

A shooting pain sends daggers through his psyche and all in one moment his headache is amplified by ten. This is always how it starts, and he knows this. He pushes his hands to his ears in a vain effort to alleviate the pain, and you’d think that as many times as he’s done this, he’d know better by know. But he doesn’t know better, and a frantic surge of speech and thought leaches into his mind like fragmented shards jumbled up and overlapping one another to the point where they are almost cryptic. It’s an overload of all things, a merciless assault on his senses. Thoughts and emotions that are not his own, all tearing through a muscle that hasn’t been touched in a lifetime. Past, present, and future all warp and bleed into each one another until he can’t even hear the sound of his own screaming. It’s all so very foreign and he feels like he’s being invaded, until something inside him works itself loose, unscrewing from rusty hinges, and suddenly his mind is working by itself. Everything cuts back to that day in 1962 on the lawn when life was still vibrant and they were together and it felt like he was _flying._

Only now does he grab the syringe on his cluttered desk and stab it into his wrist, jaw tight and eyes squeezed shut as if that alone could palliate the fresh flood of numbness overwhelming him. The ex-professor winces- the voices are too loud, too vivid in comparison to the stifling quiet that Charles has fallen into step with- but soon enough they tumble to a halt, resigning to pulsate underneath the surface like an incoherent murmur. Because no matter how convincingly he can sedate himself, those voices are always _there_.

He could say that saving Erik was a mistake. And yes, he could loathe and cast aside all the chess boards that he so wished, clear them and break them one by one until he’s satiated with triumph, but he also remembers how it felt to be able to fly. And there is nothing that will ever let Charles forget that, forget what it was like to be with him.


End file.
